


One O'Clock (It's Only Red)

by JustAGirl24



Series: Art Therapy [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Rehabilitation, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:06:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5102267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/pseuds/JustAGirl24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Art has never been his strong suit—drawing, painting, it has always escaped him. The brush feels clumsy in his left hand, frustratingly so. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Fingerpainting on the terrace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One O'Clock (It's Only Red)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikkiM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/gifts).



> A happy, happy birTHday to the wonderful ikkiM (a little early)!

When Jaime Lannister first joins the other residents of the recovery center, on the terrace at one o'clock, it is not the day after he meets Brienne, nor is it the day after that. Instead, he thinks.

He thinks about Brienne’s words, lets them tumble through his mind like a handful of marbles. _Coward. Misfortune. Revenge._ He is by turns enraged and hopeless and determined. Her invitation to “art therapy,” _fingerpainting,_ as if something so juvenile could possibly help him, can’t be ignored no matter how much he wants to.

For five days, he sits in his room, looking out the same window, watching the same calm view with the blue waters and the golden sands and the crying gulls. 

For the first time since he lost his hand, he feels himself pulled from his emptiness.

He is intentionally late on his first day of fingerpainting—even now, after all his years in the military, it still rankles for anyone to tell him what to do. Later, he will think back on this small defiance and recognize it for what it is: he is awakening further from his fog.

She is talking about the project for the day. She doesn't break from her speech, unfazed by his stringy hair, his worn pajama pants, the bruise-dark shadows under his eyes. She simply gestures to an empty chair near the middle of the space they are using. Her voice washes over him, as rich and calm as he remembers. He sits.

There is a sheet of heavy paper clipped to the easel before him, a cup of water with a thick-handled paintbrush, and a tray of watercolors.

Art has never been his strong suit—drawing, painting, it has always escaped him. The brush feels clumsy in his left hand, frustratingly so. He shakes off the brush and dabs it in the cake of burgundy. The brush comes away dripping red paint—red like his family colors, red like Cersei’s lips, red like his blood as the flesh was cut away from his arm.

He gags a bit, takes a deep breath, shoves the thought away. He hasn’t been thinking about it and he _won’t_ think about it here. Sleep will come soon enough, with nightmares he won’t be able to wake from. Jaime concentrates on the sun-warmed bricks under his feet, the breeze brushing the back of his neck.

There is a sudden warmth near his shoulder, a shadow against the blank sheet before him. He tenses, old habits too deeply ingrained even in a place such as this. His hand clenches in a fist around the brush, handle down, ready to stab, to gouge, to—

“Mr. Lannister.” Brienne’s voice is quiet as she moves into his line of sight.

His shoulders relax. He glances at her quickly, then looks back at his easel.

“I’m very glad you decided to join us.” She pulls an empty stool up next to him and squeezes his shoulder, sits down. Jaime is reminded suddenly of the way she’d held his arm, so gentle as she’d inspected his injuries, as though the stump with its jagged scars wasn’t a repugnant thing.

He shrugs, trying to dislodge the twisting in his gut at the simple touch. He is uncomfortable with how _comfortable_ he is in her presence. He is even more uneasy with the realization that he hasn’t changed clothes since before they met five days ago, that he cannot remember the last time he bathed, that he is wearing house slippers. He cannot remember the last time he _cared._

He looks around, really _looks_ at the people with him on the terrace, maybe ten in all. There is a man sitting nearby, his leg propped up on a stool, clad in a brace. He is concentrating on his paper, though Jaime cannot see what he is painting. He looks to his right and sees another man, burn scars covering half his face, though they look too old to have been from the same war that had taken Jaime’s hand. 

Brienne continues to talk to him, no judgment to be heard. “Feel free to paint whatever you’d like. It’s about finding a way to express yourself. Sometimes it’s easier to do that without words.”

She presses her broad, warm palm to his arm—his _right_ arm. Her freckles are stark against the bright white sock that protects it. She stands and moves on, leaving Jaime to contemplate the blank paper before him.

The paint has dried on his brush, the bristles stiff. He cleans it in the cup, threads of red mingling with the water, turning it pink. The brush goes back to the cake of burgundy. _It is only red, nothing more._ He takes a deep breath and puts the brush to paper. The tremors have returned, he notices, but he tries to ignore them, moving the brush in a wide arc.  

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, painting streaks of red, a hollow, aimless _rage_ filling him as he fills the paper in front of him. The brush becomes too awkward, and without much thought, he begins using his fingers instead. He swipes them angrily through the paint and then across the paper, leaving thick, harsh lines of crimson behind. He is brought back to himself when a smudge of blue interrupts the red. He looks at his hand and sees he has dragged his ring finger through the cake of indigo without realizing it. His gaze returns to the paper, and he focuses on that blue smudge, calm and serene in the midst of his rage, much like the isle he is living on now.

His fury leaves him suddenly, and he feels hollowed out, tired to his bones. He looks around the room again. Brienne is standing next to the scarred man, lightly holding his wrist with just the tips of her fingers as she guides the man’s brush.

He takes a sharp breath and looks back at his paper. The red has trickled down his page like rain on glass, bleeding into the blue.

He wipes his fingers on his pajama pants and leaves without a word.

**Author's Note:**

> Big old THANK YOUs to [QuizzicalQuinnia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia) and [downlookingup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/downlookingup/pseuds/downlookingup) for the beta work on this. You are both CRAZY talented and SUPER busy, and I appreciate your time. 
> 
> Everyone else, go read their stuff. ;)
> 
> And if you took the time to read this, thank you very much! If you have any comments or constructive criticism to pass along, I'd love to read it.


End file.
